


in over your chest is way too deep

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (Accidental), (to be safe), Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Omorashi, Pre-2012, Pre-Relationship, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I’m full up, dude. Do you want my kidneys to explode?”Patrick shrugs. He’s pretty sure that shit’s a myth. “Don’t think that’ll happen.”“My bladder, then.”Patrick chuckles. “Into your pants, maybe. It’s not gonna kill you.”“No, but I’m gonna killyou,” Jonny complains.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71
Collections: Anonymous





	in over your chest is way too deep

Bottles.

Bottles fucking everywhere, especially on _Patrick’s_ side of the room. He isn’t sure if Jonny doesn’t realize, if Jonny does it to piss him off, or if he thinks it is a joke—but Patrick doesn’t think it’s funny. He stepped on a bottle in Tampa and had it explode under his sock. He’s stumbled over them more times than he can count.

He hits his breaking point in Philadelphia when Jonny throws another bottle. It bounces off Patrick’s bed. It doesn’t hit Patrick, just drops to the floor—where it joins three more mostly empty bottles. Four more stand on the dresser—one’s from the bus ride to the hotel; Patrick cleans up after Jonny’s fat ass there too. The other three are from this morning. All water, too, because Jonny _does_ finish drinking his Gatorades.

“Fuck you,” Patrick says, and goes to pick up the bottle.

“Huh?”

“Fuck you,” he repeats, throwing the bottle back at him. “Here, finish your goddamn water.”

Jonny rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious, Jonny.”

Jonny snorts. And—okay. Patrick gets it, somebody telling him shit that way would make him laugh too, especially if Jonny did. _Especially_ if it was about something he couldn’t care less about.

“You throw out so much water, dude. Just finish the fucking bottle and put it in the trash.”

Playing into Jonny’s environmental guilt seems to finally make him _think_. His eyes widen a little, then his brow furrows as he looks down at the clear plastic in his hands, the gently swaying water. “I mean,” he says with a shrug.

“And maybe that will stop you from trashing _my_ half of the room,” Patrick adds as an afterthought, snappish and done with Jonny’s bullshit. Immediately, Jonny closes back off. “Actually, maybe you should finish off all those, too.” He points at the dresser.

Another snort, like he’s just humouring Patrick by listening to him instead of turning back to his book.

“Think you can’t do that?” Patrick presses.

And that, that finally gets to Jonny. Of course it does. “I can do that,” Jonny mutters, already unscrewing the cap.

Thank shit. At least Patrick won’t have to clean up even _more_ bottles.

-

An hour later, Jonny’s on his fifth bottle. He has slowed down his drinking, like he’s getting full, and Patrick has found two more bottles from Jonny’s side of the room—one of them was only missing one or two sips. He’s not entirely sure Jonny threw it aside or just forgot he started it at all.

“Keep drinking,” he says.

“Ugh.” Jonny shifts, tries to get comfortable, and finally gives up, getting off the bed instead. Patrick watches him do a couple stretches before he makes for the bathroom.

“No,” Patrick says, loud and clear. He isn’t sure why—just that suddenly, it seems like a good idea. Make Jonny wait. Get him uncomfortable so he _really_ won’t pull this crap anymore.

“What?”

Patrick is up already, putting himself between Jonny and the bathroom. “No,” he says. “You said you could drink all that water. You didn’t think it’s that much, so you can wait.”

Jonny doesn’t look happy with Patrick. He’s already trying to move past him, but Patrick shakes his head, sitting down on the floor so Jonny can’t just shove him over. “Come on, Pat.”

“When you finish drinking your water,” he says. “ _Come on,_ Jon.”

“Christ, you’re not my mom,” Jonny rolls his eyes. He does return to his bed though and begins drinking again, starting on the full bottle. Patrick’s pretty impressed at the speed the first half disappears, but then he slows down again.

“Very good,” he tells Jonny. Jonny looks longingly at the door behind Patrick, but Pat shakes his head. If Jonny thinks Pat’s gonna move from his spot, he’s wrong. “Now the rest.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Jonny complains. “I’m full up, dude. Do you want my kidneys to explode?”

Patrick shrugs. He’s pretty sure that shit’s a myth. “Don’t think that’ll happen.”

“My bladder, then.”

Patrick chuckles. “Into your pants, maybe. It’s not gonna kill you.”

“No, but I’m gonna kill _you_ ,” Jonny complains. He’s staring at the bottle like it _will_ murder him, with enough disdain that it could be Kesler. Patrick really, _really_ hopes Jonny will continue to hate half-empty bottles this much.

Maybe he _should_ make Jonny piss himself. Even getting him to drink all this water feels a bit like a power trip, like divine payback after all the annoyances he’s put Patrick through the past couple of years. He’d like to see that, see how far he can push Jonny.

“Finish the rest,” he tells Jonny.

“No,” Jonny says.

Patrick shrugs. “No bathroom, then.”

-

Another hour later, and Jonny’s managed another bottle. He has four left but two are almost empty anyway. Ever swallow seems to be a hardship though, and he can’t seem to sit still.

Patrick’s ass is beginning to hurt from sitting on the floor, but he doesn’t care. Something about seeing Jonny beginning to flush is—intriguing. That’s the word he’s going to use. 

“I wanna sleep, dude,” Jonny complains. He’s been making up a variety of excuses—needs to shower, brush his teeth; sleeping has become his go-to in the past ten minutes.

Patrick still _really_ wants to see Jonny lose his shit. It’s probably bad—probably fucking mean, actually, to want to see your captain wet himself. How he’s going to look—whether he’ll be mortified or only relieved—if he’ll get mad at Patrick or be distracted by the liquid heat running down his legs. Patrick isn’t sure where the urge comes from either, the unfamiliar tingle in his stomach that intensifies whenever he thinks about pushing Jonny that far. Over the past hour, a flush has crept up from Jonny’s neck to cover his entire face, making him look like he just clocked 25 minutes and still has an OT left to go. _Jesus_ , Patrick’s fucked up over this.

“No,” he repeats. He is shaky, too warm, like the heat of Jonny’s flush has transferred to him. “Only if you finish the water.”

He thinks that by now they both know Jonny won’t. He can’t—not without being uncomfortable. Patrick wonders if Jonny knows that he’ll step aside if he tells Patrick he is taking this too far, and then wonders whether Jonny would be able to do that. Give up. Telling somebody to cut it off when Patrick was the one to pose the challenge.

But surely Jonny knows he can’t _win_. Not when he’s fighting his own body against a natural and unstoppable process. There is only a finite level of control, and he is slowly losing it.

Over the next twenty minutes, Jonny comes up with a handful of half-hearted excuses before he stops talking. He also takes off his shirt, damp patches appearing at his chest and under his pits. Patrick watches him most of the time, only looking away when Jonny turns to him. He isn’t subtle, but neither is Jonny—he won’t stop jiggling his leg and keeps shifting like he is uncomfortable. He _is_ uncomfortable. Patrick can tell from the way he is tensing up, and then Jonny inhales sharply and pushes his hand between his legs.

 _Holy shit_.

Patrick bites down on his lip just so he won’t say anything—he is so used to giving in to Jonny at some point, so used to being easy for him. Maybe there is a reason for that beyond what he’s allowed himself to consider, but watching Jonny curl in on himself and breathe through discomfort does clarify a couple of things for Patrick:

One, he _really_ loves this powertrip.

Two, he is rock-fucking-hard in his jeans.

The worst must pass for Jonny because he uncurls his body. After another moment, he does get up. Lying down must have alleviated some of the pressure, because his walk over to Patrick is stiff and slow and after two steps he grabs his dick like he doesn’t care for his dignity anymore.

“Peeks,” he pants. His face is red and sweaty and Patrick wants to fucking lick his neck, wants to push his hand down on Jonny’s belly and push, wants to—“I need to—”

“Yeah,” he agrees, slowly unfolding himself from his position on the floor. Christ, his legs are stiff. His left foot begins to sting as circulation is restored. He shakes it off and opens the door, entering the bathroom before Jonny.

Jonny doesn’t counter Patrick’s decision.

Jonny barely protests as Patrick pulls him away from the toilet and into the shower, where he begins crossing his legs and bending his knees. His hand is still on his dick, outlining it through his sweatpants.

“You can take those off, I guess,” Patrick decides. Everything about what he’s done so far is selfish—and this is no exception. Sure, it won’t be fun carrying wet pants in his luggage, or worse, throwing them out and wonder what the hotel personnel will think. He’ll tell Jonny it’s that if he asks, anyway, but what Patrick really wants is to see Jonny’s bare legs, his stupidly little boxers soaked.

The entire time, ordering Jonny felt like a dream. Now, Jonny braces himself on the wall so he can step out of his pants while keeping his legs crossed, frequently taking breaks to gather composure. His underwear is black so Patrick can’t tell whether he’s leaking—not for a lack of trying, though.

“Fuck, fucking horsefucking shit,” Jonny curses, throwing his sweats aside.

Patrick barely suppresses a snicker and consequently almost misses the moment Jonny loses it. His hand still covers his dick, his legs are still crossed, but a trickle of water— _pee_ —runs down his leg It darkens and mats down the sparse hairs before pooling at his foot. Jonny exhales loud enough that it almost sounds like a moan, and then he lets go.

Patrick stops breathing. He can’t think, his own dick is throbbing in his pants and he’s glad he opted for jeans because—Christ. Jonny has slumped a little, all the fight gone from his body now that he has stopped fighting, standing in the shower with spread legs.

He is peeing hard enough that Patrick can _hear_ the stream hit the fabric, which soaks it up and lets it fan out across his thigh. The light catches on the thin film of wetness and it doesn’t look that different from Jonny showering, except—

Except it is only his one leg, and in his underwear, and Jonny is still breathing fast. His jaw has gone slack with relief. Initially, Pat thinks Jonny’s eyes are closed—but they’re not, a sliver of brown still visible, still looking back at Patrick.

 _You’re doing so good_ , Patrick wants to say. _You’re so good for me_. _You look so good_. All things he thinks. He wants to step close and feel, he wants to peel Jonny’s wet underwear away from his skin and take a peek down, wants to turn on the shower and wash him. He wants to kiss him pushed up against the cool wall and let his body say all the things his mouth can’t.

He can’t move, though. Instead he only watches Jonny as he finishes pissing. Patrick knows he does because Jonny slowly comes back to life, shaking out his legs, looking down at his body to assess the damage, and taking a deep breath.

He doesn’t look up at Patrick, and suddenly Patrick can’t stand looking at Jonny either.

 _What the fuck did we just do_ , he thinks as hysteria settles in. He made Jonny piss his fucking pants. Jesus. He made Jonny drink far more water than he probably should have out of spite, and this—God, Patrick wishes it _was_ out of spite.

“I’m gonna shower,” Jonny tells him.

Patrick only nods, his mouth dry. He backs out of the bathroom, suddenly aware of his heart racing in his chest, of the excess adrenalin in his body, his still-hard dick.

In the bathroom, the shower turns on. Patrick closes the door and wishes he could lock it from this side.

And he wishes he could ignore his erection. Even thinking of Jonny in the shower like that, of Jonny squirming, of Jonny pissing himself, all because Patrick told him to—he needs to get off, and he can’t wait until Jonny is done in the shower. Shit.

He ruffles through his luggage, finds a pack of tissues, and sits down on the edge of his bed. With his back to the door, in case Jonny is done sooner than he thinks, he can see the wrinkles left in the sheets of Jonny’s bed.

Patrick unbuttons and pulls his dick free from his underwear—just that friction is almost enough to get him there. He cups his balls, heavy and tender from being hard so long, squeezing gently before moaning and stroking his thumb over the base. He is so close to the edge already that he fumbles to unfold a tissue, in the end just covering the head of his dick with it so he can let go, thinking about Jonny in the shower, _Jonny right now in there_. He shoots into the tissue, stroking himself through it and coming harder than he has in fucking months, still burning up with shame.

Shame, he knows, that will probably only intensify once he comes down from his high.

He tries to be practical, fast, wiping himself clean before he tucks his dick back into his underwear. It is difficult when he is still shaking with the aftermath of his orgasm.

Then he sits there, the TV still on in the background, and resigns to waiting for Jonny to be done so he can assess the damage he s done to their friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike Patrick's assumption that they are a myth, there are reports of burst bladders after holding. However, healthy adults will generally just pee themselves ( [source](https://www.sciencealert.com/what-happens-when-you-hold-in-pee-science-2017) )


End file.
